


Crazy For You

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:09:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am not,” John says stubbornly, “jealous.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crazy For You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right challenge fest.  
> Prompts: Matt on the counter, pinning, jealousy, "Sometimes the kid just makes him crazy"

“Aww John, I told you to pick up the organic chicken.”

John glances down at the package in his hand -- skinless, boneless, probably fucking tasteless. He hasn’t had fried chicken _once_ since Matt moved in. The sacrifices he makes for this kid. He shrugs, tosses the plastic-wrapped Styrofoam down on the table. “What difference does it make?”

“Seriously, man, I already told you, do you not listen to a word I--” Matt throws up his hands, peers up at the ceiling as though for guidance. John follows his gaze, sees only old nicotine stains and that crack he’s been meaning to spackle since last summer.

“Organic birds are provided with a better grade of grain,” Matt says. John recognizes the tone -- he’s used it at many a lecture at the academy. Gotta take it slow and easy with the rookies. “They have more space to live, they’re given access to pasture, they’re not allowed to be fed growth hormones. Do you have any idea what kind of shit you’re putting into your body, McClane?”

John pulls a six-pack of Red Bull out of one of the brown paper bags and sets it pointedly onto the table, raises an eyebrow.

“So not even closely related to my point,” Matt says quickly. “Energy drinks were never alive.”

“So let me get this straight.“ John cocks his head, squints at Matt across the sun-drenched kitchen. “You want the little chicken to have a _happy_ life before someone breaks her neck, cuts off her head, strips off her feathers and cuts her into pieces?”

“Jesus, McClane.”

“Truth hurts, kid.”

Matt grimaces as he pivots to shove the chicken haphazardly into the freezer. Later John will have to go back and rearrange everything -- stack Matt’s array of corn dogs and pizza pops into one corner, line up the cans of frozen OJ, move the ice cream away from the back wall before it gets freezer burnt -- but for now he grits his teeth and lets it slide.

“Anyway,” Matt says as he turns back to the table, “I’m considering going vegetarian. Rick was pointing out to me…” Matt pauses, hand half in one of the bags, peers over at John through his bangs. “You remember Rick?”

“He’s come up once or twice,” John says dryly.

“Right,” Matt says. “Well, Rick was telling me about a vegetarian food fair they hold every second Saturday up near his building, in this abandoned lot. I think I’m going to go up, check it out, maybe pick up some literature, talk to a few people.”

John pictures a lifetime of tofu and spinach salad, imagines a time in the future when he’ll look back _fondly_ on tasteless skinless chicken. He can’t stop his upper lip from curling. “Great,” he mutters.

“There’s a march next month, too,” Matt says. “An activist group that Rick knows is going to demonstrate outside one of the university labs that‘s still doing testing on animals.”

John shakes his head. First organic chicken, then bean sprouts for dinner, then a “march.” It’s not too much of a stretch to picture Matt in paisley and love-beads, flashing the peace sign and growing his hair down to his ass. He shudders, tries to repress the memory of his own fashion choices in the early ‘70’s. Before Matt was _born_. Jesus Christ.

“They sound like a pretty hard-core group, at least according to Rick,” Matt continues blithely. “Radical.”

John pauses with a can of vegetables in his hand, narrows his eyes. It’s also not too much of a stretch to picture Matt getting tear-gassed before being dragged off by cops in riot gear. One of whom might have to be _him_.

Matt must notice the look on his face, because his own eyes get wide. “Oh, no, not like topple the government apocalyptic fire sale type radicals. Just…” he waves a hand in the air, furrows his brow in that way that John resolutely tells himself is not completely adorable even as his fingers twitch to reach up and smooth the lines away. “Just people who don’t agree with the way things are being run,” he finally settles on. “Anyway, Rick says--”

John slams the can of corn down on the counter. “Can you stop talking about Rick for one fucking second?”

“Whoa,” Matt says. He picks up the can, studies the new dent in the side. “The corn is innocent, dude. Don‘t punish the corn because you don’t like Rick.”

John reaches out, removes the can carefully from Matt’s hand and sets it on the table. Turns away to take a breath.

He _did_ encourage the kid to get outside once in a while, feel the sun on his face, meet people, make friends that actually breathe the same air that he does. For some reason he’d imagined this would involve joining a gym. Maybe a book club. Ridiculous, in retrospect. This is Matthew Farrell, who believes that most natural disasters are caused by covert government weapons testing and that subliminal advertising is hidden in digital television transmissions. Someone like Rick was inevitable.

And he wouldn’t mind so much, if Rick didn’t stand so close to Matt whenever they were together. If Rick didn’t put his hand on Matt’s arm when they talk. If Rick didn’t laugh so hard at Matt’s jokes and lean in to listen so intently and--

He forces his fingers to uncurl from the edge of the table, turns around to cross his arms at his chest and lean casually against it. “It’s not that I don’t like Rick,” he lies.

Matt blinks. “Ohhhh,” he says.

John frowns.

“No, I… yeah. It’s just.” Matt blinks again, and John forces himself to stand straighter. He’s faced down a deposed dictator, the head of an international terrorist ring, a cyber-thief and two fucking Grubers, not to mention an assortment of muggers, murderers, and punks high on PCP. He will definitely not shift uncomfortably just because Matt is staring at him intently. “It’s just….. John, I mean… you’re not… you’re not…”

Ohhhh.

“No,” John says firmly, “I’m not.”

“Good,“ Matt says. “Because Rick’s straight. So, you know, there‘s nothing to wor--”

“ _I’m_ straight,” John says.

“Wow, really? Huh. Then whose dick was that in my ass last night?”

Okay, John has to give him that point. He turns back to the groceries, starts digging around in one of the bags. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. You were always straight up until that point when you weren’t, when I bowled you over with my incredible good looks and boyish charm and… hey, oh hey, _wait_. Does that mean you think I might bowl Rick over with--”

“No, it doesn’t.”

Matt’s mouth slides into a slow, easy grin. “It does.”

“Matthew.”

Usually the use of his full name causes Matt to falter; this time the grin just gets wider. “It so does.”

John glances down at his hand, discovers that he’s holding a jar of Ragu that he has no memory of removing from the bag. He reaches blindly behind him to set it down carefully on the table. “Matthew,” he says slowly. “I’m warning you.”

“John McClane is jealous,” Matt sing songs.

Jesus. Sometimes the kid just makes him crazy.

“John McClane is--”

John takes two swift steps forward, has Matt pinned against the counter before the kid has time to do more than let out a breathless squeak. He uses one foot to tap Matt’s legs apart quickly, leaving him spread-eagled and off balance, leans in to press his torso solidly against Matt‘s wiry frame. There isn’t a breath of space between them, but he tips his head back so that he can meet Matt’s eyes before sliding his hands slowly down the length of Matt‘s arms to claim his wrists.

“I am not,” John says stubbornly, “jealous.”

“Right, okay. Really?” Matt says. He raises an eyebrow, shakes his hair out of his eyes in a way that makes John regret that his own hands are busy pinning Matt’s to his sides. “That’s unfortunate, McClane. Because jealous is… kinda hot. Probably not PC, right, because I’m supposed to be all independent here, nobody owns me, I can do whatever I want, but really, John--”

He shuts Matt up the best way he knows how, with lips and tongue; feels Matt’s cock jump against his thigh and then Matt is bucking a little against him, wiggling and half-heartedly trying to get free. John presses his fingers tightly against Matt’s wrists, squeezes gently and feels the pulse there quicken at his touch. Because he might not be able to control who Matt sees or what Matt does, but right here, right now? Matt is staying precisely where he wants him.

When Matt settles against him he turns his attention to the long line of Matt’s neck, nuzzles against the pale skin. The rasp of stubble against that sensitive flesh sounds loud in the small room, and John knows that if he keeps it up, later Matt will bear the mark of his attention. The thought makes _his_ dick jump, and then there‘s nothing for it. He has to kiss the kid again.

When he finally pulls away Matt’s lips are red and swollen, and John can’t resist rubbing his thumb over that lower lip, pressing in gently. “Don’t go to the march,” he says.

Matt blinks at him, pupils blown wide. “What?”

“The demonstration, animal testing. Don’t go,” John says. He lifts a hand to smooth Matt’s hair away from his face. “Please.”

He can feel the kid’s heart race, see the questions forming in Matt’s genius brain as his mind finally comes back online. When he opens his mouth, John braces himself for a long-winded protest.

“Okay,” Matt says.

But then, the kid always does know how to surprise him.

John huffs out a sigh of relief, run his thumb briefly over Matt’s cheek in thanks. The movement seems to rouse Matt, and he blinks again, pulls his head back before flicking his gaze to his own hands. He raises one slowly, turns it this way and that. “Hey,” he muses. “Okay. So… this is cool.”

Then he is crushing John against his body, those nimble fingers roaming over his back, stroking between his shoulder blades before dipping to his waistband and finding the hem of John’s shirt. Fingers catch, and John steps back just far enough to allow Matt to tug the shirt off, then does the same to Matt, watches hair flying in every direction as the threadbare shirt flutters over his head. John can’t decide whether he wants to bury his hands in that flyaway hair or run his hands all over the supple young skin that’s just been revealed, so he tries to do both -- one hand twisting in Matt’s hair, the other palming roughly over the smooth planes of his chest -- bending to lick and suck at the tender juncture of neck and collarbone until Matt whimpers, uses his own hands to push back on John’s shoulders.

John pulls away with an effort, blinks stupidly in the harsh flourescents.

“John,” Matt says.

Yes.

He ignores the stretch and pain in his shoulder when he hikes Matt up onto the counter, steps quickly between his spread thighs and resumes his attack on Matt’s neck.

“Okay, I think I’m sitting on a package of spaghetti. So not what I want to feel between my-- yeah, better,” he sighs when John grunts and shifts him over, then considerately tilts his head to the side to allow John better access to his neck. John obliges, leans in to tongue that spot behind Matt’s earlobe that makes him squirm and isn’t disappointed with the reaction he gets.

“Yeah, that’s… that’s good,” Matt breathes out. “You’re good at that, John.”

“Of course I’m good at that,” John mumbles.

“Humble, too,” Matt says, settling against him now. “You know, you could give a class. How To Subdue Your Boyfriend And Make Him Come In Three Easy Steps. Except I think at some point you should--” Matt gasps, and John can’t stop himself from smiling triumphantly against Matt’s neck. “Yeah, you should totally do _that_. That’s a good move.”

Jesus, the kid can talk.

“Shut up,” John growls against his neck.

“Oh, and authoritative. One might even say bossy. That’s hot, too. You know, last week when you went on that little rampage about tripping over the power cords in the living room, I walked around half the afternoon with a hard-on. Seriously, John, it’s not fair that you can just walk away from something like that and go back to work when I’m left--”

John lifts his head reluctantly. “Jesus Christ, kid, are you ever gonna fucking shut up?”

Matt grins. “You could make me.”

John smiles wolfishly back, enjoys the way Matt’s eyes get wide and Matt‘s heartbeat stutters against his chest. Oh yes, he intends to do just that.

And later, when Matt is passed out, he just might put in a call to Myers over at the Health Department. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if that veggie food thing -- set up in a abandoned lot, _jesus_ \-- doesn’t have a licence. It’d be so unfortunate if they had to shut it down before next Saturday.

And next week, John decides, he’s making fried chicken.


End file.
